


Twelve Steps

by braedens



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholics Anonymous, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Crying, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, nore tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:17:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braedens/pseuds/braedens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My name is Stiles Stilinski. Uh, I’m twenty-four. I’m a sous-chef. I use sarcasm as a defense mechanism.” He said with a light laugh, his eyes still peering down to the wood of the podium. He heard a patter of chuckles flow through the room, probably because these were people who knew too well how much sass he could pack. </p><p>“And I haven’t had a drink for seven and a half months.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Step One

_We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable._

He could have stopped.

Maybe during high school, if he didn't latch onto the idea that he was perpetually lonely and would be for the rest of his life, he would have learned that it was more important to love himself than to be loved by someone.

Maybe if he didn't believe that Lydia never loving him or Malia breaking it off with him was because he was the problem, always the problem.

Maybe if he didn't have to watch Scott be happy with his first love, his only love, while he constantly tried to fill up the hole in his heart with whiskey tears and vodka waves just for it to be diluted at the reminder of no one to go home to, to be his.

Maybe if he had found happiness in himself before he found it at the bottom of a beer bottle.

He should have stopped.

 

* * *

 

He should have stopped.

Maybe if he found a different source of comfort when he was with Kate, if he had found a way to end things with her rather than find a way to work around her, he may not have had to change himself to make her happy.

Maybe if he hadn't realized that he shouldn't need to be intoxicated to bear being in the same room as her, let alone let her hands roam his body, take advantage, take, take, take.

Maybe if he had listened to his family, let them help him instead of pushing them away, maybe they would still be alive.

He could have stopped.

 

* * *

 

“My name is Stiles Stilinski.”

His hands still gripped the side of the podium, the one that occupied one of the spaces in a circle of chairs of the small meeting room of the Beacon Hills community center. His hold tightened, like it was his first time talking to these people, like he hadn't been coming to these Alcoholic Anonymous meetings since he was twenty.

“Uh, I’m twenty-four. I’m a sous-chef. I use sarcasm as a defense mechanism.” He said with a light laugh, his eyes still peering down to the wood of the podium. He heard a patter of chuckles flow through the room, probably because these were people who knew too well how much sass he could pack.

“And I haven’t had a drink for seven and a half months.”

The clapping that followed his introduction rang in his ears as he made his way back to his seat so the next person could move to the podium, letting him remember that this was the kind of acceptance he needed.

 

* * *

 

Derek didn't mean to leave Beacon Hills, but he also didn't want to stay, either. But how could he live in a small town when the news of the burning of his family’s home, along with his family spread in the town like wildfire? Not to mention the guilt he felt.

He brought Kate into their lives. He didn't listen when his family tried to tell him that he wasn't happy. He thought he was. Well, the alcohol made him think it was. It healed him, aided his pain and got him through his relationship with Kate, letting him think that she was always right, that the abuse she put him through was normal, because she cared about him, and he should be lucky. He was lucky.

But he wasn't.

Cora survived, she was at school that day, and had come home late, and she survived. And it took everything Derek had to agree when the police told them both that they needed to be put in the witness protection program until they could find Kate.

So he left, he didn't tell anyone, not that there was anybody he had left to really tell. He and Cora were given an apartment in Chicago, they had given them false backgrounds and they could almost pretend that the life they had before was all a dream. They had a chance to start over.

The case for Kate was unsolved, she had ran away, and they had no trace of her, but because her whereabouts were unknown, they left Derek and Cora under the protection of the government. They gave Derek a job as an assistant at a publishing firm, and put Cora back in high school, and then paid for her to go to school at a community college.

As much as Cora could easily push her feelings down and away, Derek would still find himself restless at night, forcing himself to remember why he had to leave, what he had done to his family. Maybe as a punishment, and maybe so he’d have an excuse to go to the kitchen at night and have his own whiskey on the rocks.

It turned into a nightly habit.

Old habits do die hard, in his experience, and I never dawned on him how bad his addiction was until he remembers a hazy night of Cora coming home very late one night, around the same time Derek would be sitting on the counter of the kitchen. He doesn’t remember much of that night, having downed half a bottle of Jack Daniels. He knew there was yelling, and he threw something. But he remembers Cora not being scared, or running away from him. She grabbed him, pulled him to the floor, and Derek couldn't even feel her hands as they carded in his hair, but his cheek could hear the shuttering breaths that came from her body.

“You need to get help, Der.”

 

A year later, after sparse visits to a local AA group meeting, Derek came home from work to find Cora sitting on the sofa, like she was waiting for him. Her eyes grew wide when he closed the front door behind him.

“Cora, are you okay? You’re looking pale.” he asked, dropping his suitcase on one of the living room chairs.

“The California WRAP called,” she was light in her words, like they might pierce Derek and shatter him.

“And?” he moved to sit next her, his breath deciding to stick in his throat.

She hesitated, taking a second to regain herself and look at Derek. “The case closed. They found Kate. Dead.”

Her hands slipped into his, and squeezed hard enough to stop circulation. He didn’t blame her; it’s not like he had a great record of reacting to bad situations. He pressed his eyes shut, and nodded his head.

“Derek. They, they said that since the case is no longer in action, we don’t have to be under witness protection anymore.” Her eyes looked so hopeful when he managed to lift his head.

“Derek, we can go back home to Beacon Hills.”


	2. Step Two

_Come to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity._

Stiles let himself in the apartment, dropping his keys on the table next to the door, and made a beeline to the fridge.

“It’s not like you have your own apartment or anything.” Scott chided, coming out of the bedroom with a stack of papers in his hand and joining Stiles in the kitchen.

“Yeah, but yours is so much better.”

“Oh yeah, why is that?”

“Because you’re here, obviously.” He said, pulling out a pitcher from the fridge.

“A-hem.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but settled for a smile at the brunette that followed from the room to lean over the counter.

“And you, of course, Mrs. Soon to be McCall.”

“The lies,” she said, crossing her arms. “You only come for my lemonade.”

A small chuckle came out of his mouth as he took three cup from the cabinet.

“To be fair, your lemonade is the best I’ve ever had.”

He poured some into each cup, and handed one to Scott and Allison, rewarded by a kiss on the cheek from her.

“So, how was the meeting today?” Scott asked, moving the papers over to the kitchen table, along with his drink, Stiles following him to sit across.

“You know, the usual. It’s pretty much the same every time I go. “

Scott shifted through his piles of essays, separating the graded ones and the one still to be graded.

“Are you excited to get your eight month chip?”

Stiles knew he never actually let Scott know, but he appreciated how much his best friend cared about something so simply that he was going through. For a long time, Stiles always felt like he was alone. Not just in a romantic sense, but in a psychological sense. He used drinking to black out his mind, because he was so sure no one could possibly understand how he felt, especially his best friend who was the epitome of true love.

It took trial and error, unfortunately, before Stiles would even talk to Scott about his problem. He would ignore him for weeks, especially when he would bring up the slightest talk of an “addiction”. He couldn’t help it; growing up, he was constantly tested at the game of Could Stiles’ Life Get Any Worse. Between his mother’s death, his father’s constant state of depression mixed with his heavy work schedule keeping him from home, it only flooded in with his feelings of solitude. He had the constant thought that no one would ever stay in his life long enough to love him, and as he got older, those feelings transferred over to how girls saw him.

He could admit now that he was a mess. He let alcohol ruin his life, make him more cold and distant until he basically depended on it to get through the day. He wasn’t proud of the path he took, and how the person he took it out on the most was the person who was trying their hardest to help him. Scott never gave up on him. He didn’t bring up the problem much, but he still tried his best to make Stiles feel validated. And even though he never appreciated it back in high school and college, he knows that he never would have realized where the real problem was if Scott hadn’t forgave him for the abuse he put him through, if he hadn’t taken him to his first AA meeting when he was twenty, and came with him every week for the first six months.

It wasn’t like Scott did it out of pity or sympathy either. Stiles knew that Scott was there for him simply because he was a good friend. He never chided Stiles when he had a bad day and let his temper out. He never scolded him when he set himself back and found Stiles sitting on the floor of their once shared apartment with tears in his eyes and bourbon on his breath on the anniversary of his mother’s death. He was just supportive, and understanding, and Stiles wonders how many lifetimes it would take to repay Scott half of what he’d done for him.

“I can’t wait, man.” a genuine smile spreading across his face. He gestured to Scott with his cup. “What did you have the little munchkins write about this week?”

It was almost insane how bright Scott’s smile was at the thought of talking about his students. Unlike most middle school history teachers, Scott had the most positive attitude on education than anyone did with his income. Not that he had much to worry about; Allison’s family are the owners of Argent Hunting, a popular chain outdoors store. So Scott had the freedom to do what he loves without having to worry much.

“I gave them free range to write about any historical event that was impacted by either World War One, two, or the Civil War.”

“Twenty bucks says you won’t have the heart to give any of them a grade lower than an 80 percent,” he said with a smug smile. Scott may be the teacher, but he had a soft spot for his students.

“Put me on for that, too,” Allison chimed from the living room, her eyes never looking up from the book she was reading.

Yeah, Stiles had a good thing going.

* * *

 

“It’s not a house, but it’s a home, I guess.”

Derek and Cora made the decision of coming back to Beacon Hills a few weeks after they got the phone call. It was a process for them to be reregistered with the state of California and cleared for arrival, and at first Derek didn’t even think he could go through with it. But he knew he couldn’t bind Cora to a fake life forever. Their home was in Beacon Hills, he knew that more than anyone.

And so, a month and a half later, they found themselves on a plane to Beacon Hills, California, and given the information of what was left to them after the fire. And that’s how they found themselves making home at the loft their late uncle Peter had owned, and a substantial amount of money that was saved up in their parents’ name.

Derek dropped his bag by the door, his eyes skirting the open space. It was large; a living room and kitchen spread out alone with a huge glass paned window overlooking the city, and a spiral staircase that lead upstairs to the two bedrooms.

He reached over to put his arm around his sister, pressing her into his side.

“It’s _our_ home, now.”

 

It took a few days for their stuff to be brought to California, and until then Derek rarely left the loft. He wasn’t ready to be the talk of the town again, even if it had been so long. Cora constantly told him that no one would possibly know who he was just by looking at him, and that his abundance of stubble would vouch for him. He could feel himself getting anxious again. He spent almost six years in Chicago, burying down the memories and emotions he had found some way to bottle. And now it felt like they were rushing back.

He realized it might be harder than he though when Cora was vaguely mentioning picking up groceries, and Derek had squeezed the orange in his hand almost to a pulp at the thought of going out in public. Cora’s eyes softened, and she left the kitchen for a few moments, only to come back with a white card in her hand, shoving it in Derek’s face.

 “What is this?” he said, slowly moving his hand to take it from her.

“It’s an address.”

“I can see that. Where to, can I ask?”

“It’s for an Alcoholics Anonymous group. There’s one that meets every Sunday afternoons at three.”

“Cora, you d-“

“Derek, I’m not going to watch you set yourself back again.” Even sounding serious, she moved to stand behind him on the bar stool he was sitting on and wrap her arms around his shoulders, her face pressing into the space his neck met his shoulder. “I know coming back here isn’t easy, and going to AA in Chicago did help you.”

“Cora, I don’t know,”

Her arms tightened. “Please, just go to next week’s meeting. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to keep going. Just go to one, for me. Please.”

He let the breath he was holding out in a long take, turning the card in his fingers.

“Okay, I’ll go.”

* * *

 

Beacon Hills was a relatively small town, in the sense that Stiles knew just about everyone who lived there. It was nice. He could have a conversation with anyone. But it also sucked, because everyone knew everyone’s business.

So it wasn’t really a surprise anymore that Stiles went to Alcoholics Anonymous. In all honesty, in some way he was glad people knew. It reminded him that he had accepted his problem, and that he had to find a way to make it better.

It was usually the same people at these meetings, and Stiles was usually the youngest. Beacon Hills wasn’t known for its thriving population of young adults. But even though the members at the meetings rarely switched out, they still had to start each meeting the same way; introduce themselves, their age, something about themselves, and how long they’d been sober. Then they’d go into sharing. People would talk about their struggle, what is was like for them to stay sober, if they relapsed, and go through the twelve steps and understand what they were on.

To the outsider’s perspective, Stiles could see why some people thought support groups like this would be pointless. Hell, he did too for a long time. But it wasn’t until he actually started going that he realized so much about his problem and what he was doing. Now, it just felt like a regular thing, a part of his weekly routine to come in to these meetings.

That Sunday, he had felt particularly tired. Saturdays in the summers were usually the busiest at Luna De Clare, the Italian restaurant he worked at. The head chef had asked him to work overtime the night before, and he hadn’t gotten to come home until two in the morning. But even though he very much wished he could have slept in for three days straight, he subconsciously was wired to go to support group, which was how he found himself sitting in the metal chair in the circle, listening to Bonnie tell the story of her daughter’s passing and her grief ailed by alcohol, struggling to stay awake.

Stiles was last for introductions this time, probably because their support leader, Amanda, noticed the fatigue that radiated off of him. Nonetheless, Stiles got up, and found himself at the podium.

“I’m Stiles Stilinski, in case you guys ever forgot.” He started, a sleepy grin covering his face. “I’m twenty-four, highly regretting my decision of becoming a sous-chef right about now.” The chuckles spanned in the room.

“And, uh, I’m almost eight months sober.”

There was clapping, of course, and Stiles stepped back to his chair, waiting for someone to start talking about where they found themselves steps-wise. But instead, Amanda spoke up.

“Everyone, I think we have one more introduction. Sir, would you like to come and join us?”

Stiles blinked away his sleep and looked at where everyone else’s’ heads were turning to, and noticed an older male standing at the opening of the room, by the door. He was rugged, his face heavy with five 0’clock shadow and arms that look like they could rip his shirt in half just by flexing.

He looked unsure of himself, and Amanda gestured to the podium with a smile that could probably convince an axe murderer to become a florist or something.

Something looked oddly familiar about the man, but Stiles couldn’t really tell by the way he kept his damn eyes down, even when he was walking to the podium. It’s not like this town was famous for its attractive, rugged men, because if it was, believe him, Stiles would have known.

He hesitated at the stand, and it left an odd silence in the room. Of course, Amanda stepped in.

“We start our introductions by telling the group our name, our age, and a fact about ourselves. And if you’re comfortable, how long you’ve been sober.”

The male finally looked up, but his eyes just stared at Amanda, probably to avoid feeling judged by the other members. And when he did, Stiles mind clicked, like gears finally snapping to place. If he took away the scruff, and tried to imagine how this man would look as a teenager, Stiles’ memories flooded with nights of babysitting when his father worked overtime, teaching him to play board games and throw baseballs.

“My name is Derek Hale, twenty-nine years old. I’m, uh, a publicist.” His voice was low, but anyone could hear the nervous crack in it. “I don’t really know if there’s much to tell about me,” he said, trying to brush it off with a small smile. But at that moment, Derek’s eyes flickered over to Stiles, and before he could look back down without so much a thought, Stiles’ could see his sudden moment of realization, of the boy who he had once taught how to ride a bike now sitting in a circle of people joined together by their problems with alcohol.

“And I’m a little over three months sober.”


End file.
